My son stated, «We can’t keep you here, you need to leave.» So I departed…

I left the rest in the car. I made a cup of tea using the ancient kettle the unit came with and walked onto the little balcony. The ocean wasn’t visible, but I could hear it.

That was enough. My phone stayed on silent that week. I didn’t check social media.

I didn’t call old friends to explain. I just unpacked one drawer at a time, filled the fridge with things I actually wanted to eat, and watered the two plants I bought at a roadside market on the way down. On Wednesday, I took a walk along the boardwalk.

Nobody recognized me. Nobody stared. I passed a bookstore, a pier, and a seafood shack where a woman about my age was painting seashells at a folding table.

She smiled and offered me one. Pick the one that calls to you, she said. I chose a blue one with silver edges.

Good choice, she said. That one’s for people who’ve just let go of something heavy. I thanked her and put it in my coat pocket.

That night, I placed it on the kitchen counter next to my keys. I named it Peace. Days passed, then a week, then ten days.

I got into a rhythm. Coffee at eight, walk at ten, journal at three. I signed up for an art class that met every Tuesday and Thursday in the rec room.

My instructor’s name was Walter. He was 70, wore suspenders, and told the worst jokes I’d ever heard. He also remembered my name on the second day.

One afternoon, he walked over to look at my canvas and said, You paint like someone who’s survived something. I smiled. That’s because I have.

And I meant it. I didn’t talk about Josh, not to him, not to anyone in the class. The past was a sealed drawer.

I had no interest in reopening it until the letter came. It was handwritten in Josh’s messy script, postmarked from a P.O. box outside of Charlotte. No return address.

Inside were four lines. I know I can’t undo what I did. I don’t expect anything from you…